The Pirate's Debt (The Regent's Revenge Book 2) (10 page)

As if knowing exactly what she needed, he stroked her hair with measured skill. “You have no idea how worried I was when I learned you’d come searching for me.”

“You knew?” Afraid to speak, to let him go, she clung to Markwick’s wet skin like a buoy thrown from a ship in heavy seas. “How?”

“Blackmoor told me.”

My letter to Pru!

She angled her head up to look at him. “When did you see the Duke of Blackmoor?”

He pressed her head against his chest again. “Right before I set sail for Penzance.”

Penzance!
“You did go there.”

“I’ve been there many times.”

“But not in the capacity contacts in Torquay had me believe.” That much was clear. She didn’t harbor any ill will to the men who’d plied her with false information. In the end, her voyage had led her to Markwick; that was all that mattered.

He rubbed her back soothingly, helping her forget the horrifying events that had brought them to this moment. But for how long? She flattened her hands across his chest, absorbing his heat like a glutton, wanting to feel his arms around her as she kneaded his flesh.

The Earl of Markwick had always been her anchor, her lifeblood, even if he’d not been aware of it. But now, after her inflexible resolve had brought them together, she allowed herself to loosen her tightly bound control.

“I have a confession to make,” she whispered.

Laughter rumbled from his chest. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I never wanted you to marry Pru.”

“I didn’t know.” He caressed her back, drawing circles there, easing some of her aches and distress. “Prudence and I—”

She raised her head and placed her finger to his lips. “No. Don’t speak. Words will only ruin this moment.”

He’d done his duty as a friend. So had she. She’d lied to get where she was now, concocting reasons not to accept suitors. She’d promised her best friend that she no longer loved Markwick in order to hasten Pru’s happiness. She’d excused herself early from dinner to prepare for a visit to her aunt, all the while planning to run away with Jane. And she regretted nothing. Just as Markwick must not regret teaching Pru how to live again.

Yet above all, one thing twisted cruelly inside her, influencing their happy reunion, preventing her from reveling at so intimate an embrace—the wreckers.

Nausea swept through her, and she fought the urge to heave the contents of her stomach onto his boots.

Her heartbeat thumped wildly in her chest like a beast clawing its way out of a den. Her pulse throbbed in the sides of her neck, making it harder to breathe, to speak. She splayed her hands over Markwick’s ribs, marveling and lamenting her good fortune at the same time, plagued by memory, weighted by the guilt of countless men who’d been less fortunate than she.

Thirty-six men are dead . . .

Her body began to shake of its own accord.

“Easy now.” Markwick’s deep baritone wrapped her in a bit of warmth. “It’s never easy doing the right thing.”

No, it wasn’t. She bit her lip and clung to his solid torso. “When Jane and I thought we were going to die, I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing you again.” She slid her hands up the hardened planes of his chest, then pushed back, skimming her palms down his strong, powerful arms. “But here you are . . . in the flesh.”

His searching eyes, the silver color accentuated by his black mask, raked over her face with a stormy intensity she’d seen only once before. The moment he’d inspected her person aboard the
Mohegan
. But it wasn’t anger she saw mirrored there. No, desire. Her heart jolted, beating out of time as his muscles tensed and he stepped back, attempting to put distance between them.

She flicked a glance at his still-masked face. “Please don’t push me away. I couldn’t bear it.”

He nodded, albeit slowly. Then, after a distinctive pause, he reached for her neck and pulled her toward him once more. “I won’t. I’ve tried. Over and over again, I’ve tried to ignore the tether you are to my soul, Chloe. I’ve struggled to do the right thing by my family, your brother, Prudence. When Blackmoor died . . . was assumed dead . . . I did what honor bade me to do and offered the duchess my hand, hoping a marriage of convenience would offer the security widowhood had stolen from her. And yet, through it all, you were always there, forcing me to fervently deny the invisible thread between us.” He planted her head on his chest and then locked his arms around her, leaning his chin on her disheveled hair. “When Blackmoor returned and I learned the truth about my father, I felt as if every noble thought, every just act I’d tried to accomplish had been for naught. This,” he said, arching his arms wide, indicating the
Fury
, “is where I sought to earn back my pride, to become the man I thought I was before my father’s betrayal. But even this wasn’t far enough away to escape thoughts of you.” He leaned back and lifted her face to his. “What in God’s name are you doing to me, Chloe?”

“I’m loving you!” Wrapped in his warmth, she fought back tears. “I’ve come to make you see that we can have a future together.”

“A future? You and me? It’s too late. My father—”

“Was just a man who chose to walk the wrong road. You are not like him, Markwick. I know who you really are.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. Your brother will not stop until he finds you. And if you are here with me, he’ll also find the Regent.” He exhaled a frustrated sigh and tried to push her away.

Was Pierce the only thing stopping Markwick from loving her? Hope sprang in her breast. Didn’t he know she’d risk a thousand shipwrecks, her family’s disappointment, and more to be at his side?

“I love you.” She placed her hand on his cheek. “That must account for something. We can make the Captain understand.”

“If I approached Walsingham in his study like an ordinary suitor requesting your hand, perhaps. But I am not an ordinary suitor, am I? I’m a pirate, and not just any pirate, but the Board of Excise’s primary target.”

“We’ll find a way together,” she promised. She caressed his cheek gently, then moved the tips of her fingers to his mask. He didn’t stop her as she inched it over his head and off his face. The last barrier between them fell to the floor, forgotten. “There is the man I adore.” She threaded her fingers through his shoulder-length hair. “You can leave the
Fury
and return with me to Exeter.” She eased into his embrace, fighting back the images that assaulted her with abandon.

Markwick sending her away . . . Pierce finding the Black Regent and killing him without knowing his true identity . . . Ships sinking . . . The
Mohegan
. . .

Her heart cried out against the horrific possibilities. “I cannot bear living without you.”

“You are being overly dramatic.”

“No. I am all agony. I have no shame when it comes to you.”

She clutched him tighter, fearing his immediate release. She
was
incredibly lucky—blessed, in fact—privileged, and grateful that Markwick had found her when he did. The alternative meant never being given the chance to speak her heart.

“Oh, Markwick.” She stifled another impudent sob. “Do not send me away. I cannot live without you.”

“Each man has a code of ethics he cannot cross. A man must adhere to that code or else he’s lost.”

“What does your heart tell you to do?” Her breath hitched as she waited for his answer.

“It . . .” Markwick slipped his fingers through her hair and grasped the back of her neck, gazing wildly, disturbingly into her eyes, as if searching for something. “I cannot have what I want.”

Her heart fell from its usual place. His refusal to accept what she offered him sliced through her. “You have only to reach out and take what you want.”

Her legs weakened as a flickering, feral heat blazed in Markwick’s silver-blue stare. His unexpected behavior did things to her she’d never felt before. Here, now, she knew he wanted her. And she needed him in return, a coiling heat burning deep inside, drugging her with abandon and stealing her breath. She closed her eyes, succumbing to the sensations that charged her blood with maddening heat. But beneath her lashes, a light flickered in the darkness, illuminating figures descending on helpless men.

Markwick cupped her face. “Are you unwell?”

“No. I am . . .” Heaven help her, he’d set her ablaze. Was she so weak with desire that she couldn’t breathe? Or was she, even in the midst of sensual delight, doomed to forever envision the horrors she’d seen?

The cabin began to spin.

“Bloody hell, you’re going to catch your death.” He grabbed her wrists and set her back at arm’s length, leaving her shivering for more of his addicting warmth as he moved about the cabin.

She reeled as a cold agony swept over her.

Captain Teague’s voice infiltrated her senses.
“Abandon ship!”

She felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her lightheaded, and her body began to shake uncontrollably. “I hear them . . . swimming . . . crying out,” she said between chattering teeth, willing the sickening, tormenting screams she’d heard aboard the
Mohegan
to fade. “What I’ve seen . . .”

“You will never see again. It is over now. You are on board the
Fury
.”

“They didn’t know,” she continued. “Those poor men swam for shore thinking they would be safe.”

“You are safe . . . with me.”

“Safe?” Why did her voice sound like it came from miles away? Why did she whine like a pitiful child?

Children.
Whenever she and Jane had been topside, the men on board the
Mohegan
had boasted about their children, the ones they missed, the ones they’d never even seen. Now the ones they never would meet.

Who would take care of the fatherless waifs now?

She’d never wished anyone harm before. Not even the Marquess of Underwood for what he’d done, first to Pru and Blackmoor, and then to his own son. But now . . . God help her, an aged shriek threatened to burst from her lungs. Someone needed to put an end to the wreckers who’d forced the
Mohegan
onto the rocks and premeditated the horrific murders of the ship’s crew. No other man should be forced to leave his wife and children in poverty.

Markwick shook her gently. “Chloe!”

Hysteria welled within her among waves of enveloping blackness. An uncontrollable wail rose from her breast. She sucked in air, trying with all her might to submerge her panic, to rejoice in her good fortune, but at what cost?

“You survived, Chloe. Focus on that one miracle.”

Yes. Miracles happen . . . happened. Blackmoor rose from the dead. Markwick came for her!

Markwick’s fingers snaked through her hair. Ever so slowly, he drew her close enough to feel his warm breath fanning across her face. Baptized by the air he breathed, shocked and titillated by her response, Chloe drowned in the delicious torment, clinging to an unquenchable urge to ignore everything—anything—but this.

“Come back to me.” He placed his lips on hers, the contact featherlight at first, then growing more demanding as her feeble mind and quivering body fought for dominance.

A moan escaped her as he stroked her face, caressing her skin lightly with his thumb and forefinger, shocking her all the way to her toes. Growing bolder, she eagerly fled her tormenting thoughts, kissing him back, luxuriating in the feel of his velvet tongue on hers, moving her hands across his shoulders as he broke away to trail kisses from her cheek to her neck. Each moment of contact ignited deeper yearnings. Beyond caring where she was, she arched into him, pressing her body as close as a body could get.

Every grinding movement chased away the terrifying images of what she’d seen in the past twelve hours. Soon, nothing existed but this moment—his touch, the creak of the swinging lantern, and their quickened breaths.

I am safe as long as I am with Markwick.

He turned her around until her back was braced against the bulkhead. “I will not allow anyone to hurt you again.” The husky pitch of his voice sounded riddled with pain as he broke away long enough to speak.

She clung to the spell he wove over her senses, knowing that if the sensations he roused within her continued, they’d face dire consequences. To hell with being prim and proper! She’d sacrificed her personal desires for everyone else. Now she was taking back what was rightfully hers as passion unlike anything she’d ever experienced gripped her. Wherever and whenever Markwick touched her—her face, back, waist, hips—she craved more. His touch purged her mind of what could have been. Their molding bodies created a friction obliterating right and wrong. All that mattered now was the present, this intimate dance unchanged by time.

“I am undone,” she breathed between kisses as he stroked her breast through her pelisse, gown, and stays, creating a delicious throbbing pulse inside her.

“You are perfect.” He kissed her soundly, cutting off her delightful moan with a fervor she’d never dreamed possible. She’d never felt so brazen, so cherished, as she did when he picked her up then—as he’d done so many times in her dreams—as if she weighed not a stone, and carried her across the cabin. After several kisses and booted footsteps, he lowered her to her feet near his bunk.